


Five Valentines

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, John can't get any, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:26:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Valentine's Day, and everyone plans something sweet for those special someones. Some plans are more successful than others. A quick series of five shorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Valentines

**I.**

Sherlock has, of course, known all along how to change the text alert on his phone. He finds it a fairly distasteful bit of knowledge, a petty vanity of technology, but he can’t deny its usefulness. The fact is that it would be irresponsible for him to allow something as vital as his mobile phone to keep secrets from him. It’s come in handy a few times- a romantic jingle to support his (not entirely untrue) bluff that someone (implied wife) will know he is missing; a clip from the latest pop hit to reinforce a hasty disguise; the occasional silencing of all sounds when stealth is required. And of course there’s the Woman, _the_ Woman, who wouldn’t have had her old phone with her when she was captured in Kazakhstan. Obviously.

He has always known how to change any of the various noises his phone makes, even the ones meant to be hard-coded. He is, after all, a genius, and sometimes little things like this matter.

When he receives the text, his phone no longer sighs at him. John doesn’t pay any attention. Sherlock receives lots of texts, and they all make the same sound. It’s only when he sees Sherlock’s look of supreme annoyance that he says something. “Anderson,” he replies. “Destroying evidence and he doesn’t even realise it. Got to get down there and sort things out.” He pulls on his coat in a sulk and wraps his scarf around his neck.

“Well, don’t hurry back. I’ve a date tonight.”

“I know. You’ve combed your hair within an inch of its life, and you’ve been reading the same page of the paper for half an hour. You must really like this one.”

John favors Sherlock with a weary smile as he leaves. He knows there are things they will never see eye-to-eye on, but they can at least come to some sort of understanding.

Sherlock waits until he is down the steps and out the front door before sending a reply. _Of course. I’ve made reservations. SH_

There is a cab already waiting for him just down the street.

**II.**

Gregory Lestrade is stiff and uncomfortable in the suit, but he is trying. He is trying _so hard._ His wife is effortlessly beautiful across the table from him. He can’t help the nagging thought that this is not for him. This is a display she puts on for someone else’s benefit. It’s some kind of sick show, that she can be so kind to him and still utterly break his heart.

He doesn’t ask about the P.E. teacher. She’s probably moved on by now anyway. He likewise doesn’t ask about the travel agent, the hotel manager, the musician. By now he has learned what they all have in common: an off-season.

Greg does not have an off-season. Crime never sleeps, so they say. Greg just has busy and busier. But he has tonight, a full evening to spend together (though he dreads the thought of what kind of trouble Anderson and Donovan are getting into without his guidance, then squashes the idea, mustn’t think about work). Miraculously, he has no emergency calls on his mobile, no smug texts from Sherlock, nothing.

He has an evening alone with his wife, and it terrifies him.

She smiles like a tiger and swirls her wineglass. He is saved from another attempt at conversation when the waiter arrives to take their orders.

**III.**

John feels a little guilty taking his date to Angelo’s. It seems like cheating, a feeling that is supported by the curious look he receives from their host when he escorts the pretty girl to their table. But the fact is that the food is good, the atmosphere is comfortable, and Angelo is prone to giving him discreet discounts in exchange for making sure that Sherlock eats at least once a day.

It doesn’t take long for him to admit to himself that this is a terrible idea. Dinner on Valentine’s Day. What was he thinking? The restaurant is packed with devoted couples, and here he is, their third date, and he’s looking desperate behind the sad little candle.

Alice, for what it’s worth, doesn’t seem to mind. “What a charming place this is!” she says when Angelo finally leaves them alone. “And you know the owner?”

“Sort of. Sherlock did him a favor a while back. He’s convinced the two of us are a couple, if you can believe it. Gave me the dirtiest look the first time I came here with someone else.” He knows it’s a mistake as soon as he says it, but it’s too late. Alice pretends not to notice, doesn’t ask how many dates he’s brought here.

“You have to admit, the two of you make quite the pair.” John can’t tell if she’s joking or bitter. He’s not optimistic about it.

“Yes, well, someone has to take care of him, because he certainly won’t.” He changes the subject after that, but he knows it’s over. They will politely finish their candlelit dinner, and when he calls a few days later, she’ll be too busy to see him again. Another relationship Sherlock has ruined before it could start, and he’s not even there. Sometimes John wonders if he does these things on purpose.

**IV.**

Sebastian tries to remain calm as he opens the package. He knows Jim is looking for a reaction, waiting to tease him for being so emotional about material things. But the boss knows him too well, knows how to turn off his mental safeties and pull the trigger. He pulls off the last layer of paper and reverently strokes the barrel. The rifle is black metallic sex, a remorseless hunter with one gleaming long-distance eye and a killing range of nearly a mile. A work of art in violence. Jim knows him too well, but it’s not always a bad thing.

Even better than the gun, however, is what the gun represents. He looks expectantly at Jim.

“You’ll like this one, Seb. Some rebellion leader is giving a speech in- well, it doesn’t really matter where. It’s all very boring, very predictable. The people are the revolting, in every sense of the word. You get to shoot both sides. First the speaker, then some of the military types who will doubtless be there to keep a horde of unarmed civilians from causing a riot.”

“It’ll be a massacre, Jim. As soon as I fire on the soldiers, they’ll start killing. Every last protestor will get his brains blown out by overzealous soldiers who think they’re under attack.”

Jim doesn’t say anything to that, but he gives Sebastian an eager smile. It’s the ever-so-slightly-proud look that he saves for those moments when Sebastian figures out a plan on his own. He gets the hint.

“So I guess I had better shoot the protestors quickly then, eh?”

**V.**

It’s later than he had planned when John arrives back at 221B Baker Street. The dinner was not entirely disastrous, he comforts himself, but he knows when he has lost. He has so very much experience with it. He forces himself to climb the stairs without trudging gloomily, since it’s not like Sherlock would care, anyway.

The music is audible even before he opens the door. When he enters the room, he’s greeted by the image of Sherlock in his dressing gown by the open window, playing his violin for the streets of London. John smiles despite himself. Somewhere there’s a joke in the fact that a man as detached as Sherlock puts so much soul into his music. This isn’t his idle plucking at strings or thinking composition, either, but simply playing for the music’s own sake. Must be a good mood, John thinks, and heads to the kitchen.

There is a fresh jug of milk in the fridge, and not a single body part anywhere to be found. The chemistry equipment still clutters the table, but it does appear to be clean. John _hmms_ to himself and grabs a bottle of lager that hadn’t been there when he left.

Back in the front room, he settles into his usual chair with his laptop while Sherlock continues playing. A sort of understanding passes between them. It’s not a bad way to spend an evening, after all- John working on his blog, Sherlock on his violin. John only pretends to type. Sherlock only pretends to ignore him. They don’t speak about the women they will probably not see again because they don’t speak at all.

As John collects himself to turn in for the night, Sherlock allows him to catch him smiling.


End file.
